The History of the World
by Smeepalicious
Summary: Memory is short, history but a book, and only two beings turn those yellowed pages now—the Sage in contemplation on a hill beneath a tree, and the wind blowing winter’s chill in from the north." Oodles of angst.


**A/N: Week three of the Writing Regimen comes to you a little late, a little short, and a little bad.**

**Quick question for anybody reading—I haven't finished the third season yet, so I refuse to read any other fics until I do, but I've run into the problem that Shinou and Daikenja have no stated names in the series, at least according to Wikipedia. I know a lot of times such characters develop fan names (case and point—Akeifa (Thief King Bakura) in Yugioh). Does any such thing exist for these two characters? Help is much appreciated.**

**Enjoy!**

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A leaf, yellow and mottled red, fluttered down from the wide sprawling branches of a familiar tree and landed on the pages of a book, spine cracked with frequent openings and closings, corners yellowed and bent with turnings and wear. A chill wind rushed out of the north and flipped the worn and yellow pages ten or twenty at a time; beneath the Wise Man's slender fingers history leapt by decades from war to war, famine to drought and famine again, and death after death after death.

"The history of the world is death," he muttered to himself as the wind finished the book for him. How quickly the seasons change, the leaves metamorphose, the wind becomes cold. How quickly on the heels of a war prolific in blood the people clamor with discontent, divide themselves over arbitrary boundaries, demand war and war again. How quickly the sheen of glory dulls and shows its distemper with the flowing of time—months only, if it is tended to, and weeks if it is not. Memory is short, history but a book, and only two beings turn those yellowed pages now—the Sage in contemplation on a hill beneath a tree, and the wind blowing winter's chill in from the north.

"Feeling cynical today, my chosen strategist?" The metallic creak of decorative armor clanking uphill announced His Majesty's presence before his voice did, although in all honesty that presence was completely expected. The Sage shut his book with a soft sigh. Such predictability wore on him; there was no strategy unforeseeable, no outcome ever erred from his calculation… except, of course, in one notable instance. He glanced up at the king's armored forearm where beneath the plate bronze and draping cotton sleeves the cancerous decay was gnawing at His Majesty's flesh and at that deeper, more essential part within him. For now, there was a good-natured if thin smile on the blonde's handsome face, but he had seen how quickly those eyes could darken with rage and those lips downturn. He had seen how quickly the wind turned frigid and the leaves fell from their branches.

"It is my job to be cynical," he replied, histories laid aside at the curling root of the tree. "You rally the troops and give your high speeches of valor and glory; I stand to your right with an abacus, calculating reasonable strategic casualties before the men begin to fall." The king allowed himself a small laugh, but nothing more. The Wise Man could tell that His Majesty was suppressing himself; there was a restraint to the laughter, a tightness in his smile. It was still unclear what would trigger a lapse into chaotic or murderous intent. Anger and frustration would speed the consumption without fail, but perhaps the dark stirrings of his contaminate soul could also be awakened with joy or laughter or too much care. So much was uncertain.

"My affliction troubles you, my friend," he lamented. "I would rather the burden on your mind were lighter. Can you not speak with me frankly?"

"Would it make any difference? Can I change things now with words or feelings? I could tell you that I am well, but you would see through my lies. The Sage feels not so enigmatic and mysterious today; he bears his sorrow plain in his tight eyes and furrowed brow. I could tell you the truth: that I am far from fine, that I could never allow you to pass beyond this world without grief, but it would change nothing. I am a strategist to my general, a vassal to my lord, and a patriot of my nation, and all these duties and my better judgment clamor to execute my responsibility, but I am also a man with a single friendship in this world and a heart that will break when you are gone from it. And for all this, still I cannot alter the path that we must now inexorably travel— better, then, to be silent! All my high words are but a breeze passing my lips, stirring dust but halted by pebbles while Fate carves the imminent mountains in the sky and erects Your Majesty's tomb upon them." He collapsed against the tree trunk as though his bones had deserted him; his eyes fell limply closed.

"My unhappy friend, no man who thinks himself grieved could look at that piteous load you bear upon your shoulders and still hold himself burdened by any weight at all. It was never my intention to leave you carrying that load alone," said the King to his ever-loyal vassal.

"I know," replied the vassal to his fading King. They sat there for a long while beneath the shelter of the sprawling tree. The Sage slept for some span of hours—or was it months? When he was aware of himself once more the sky was dark, the wind was cold, and His Majesty was gone.


End file.
